Under a Winter Sky

by Jeffe Kennedy

  She could understand the jealousy of those who could not wield Earthsong. Any of them could learn to use blood magic if they chose, but after the Folk left the Mother to become Outsiders, they lost the old ways for the most part. And so they fought the sorcerers—sometimes their own brothers and sisters. Meanwhile, inside the mountain, clans fought for far pettier reasons.

  “What were you sent here to observe?” Mooriah asked. “You never said.”

  Fenix spread his arms. “This land. Your ancestors settled here from my world and found safety and hospitality. There are those where I’m from who keep track of such things in case a need for another exodus comes to pass. Our world was destroyed, and our people scattered. If any of us find ourselves displaced once again, victims of another calamity, it is helpful to know where we might find refuge.”

  “Another calamity? What happened?”

  His all over glow dimmed even further. “That is a long, sad story. One for another time.”

  Mooriah nodded. Curious as she was, she had no desire for a sad tale. The wind picked up again, ruffling her braid. She turned to her father who was pensive.

  “How long will you be here?” Yllis asked.

  “I am not certain,” he said, gazing at Mooriah speculatively. “Until my task is complete, I suppose.”

  She didn’t know how long observing took or if there were special requirements or perhaps a report he had to compile, and she sensed Fenix was being vague on purpose. They had explained what Yllis was planning on the trip out of the mountain, when Fenix was still playing at being gravely injured. “Well, will you help us?” she asked.

  “Certainly. It seems I owe you a debt for saving my life from those vile, pale creatures in the caves.”

  She set her jaw. “You are lucky that some of those vile, pale creatures are kind and generous.”

  Fenix quirked his lip, which only served to stoke her ire. He took very little seriously. “I consider myself lucky, indeed.” His tone edged toward flirtatious, which flustered Mooriah, but also had the effect of cooling her anger. He gazed so directly at her with eyes of liquid gold. They were almost hypnotizing.

  “We have a long walk to the cornerstone,” Yllis announced, breaking the strange effect she’d been under. “I will explain more on the way.”

  As they trekked across the mountain paths, Mooriah slowly grew used to the cold. The cloak her father had given her was lined with fur and provided adequate warmth, and she could always do a blood spell to further warm herself but decided to hold off. Part of her wanted to feel such a foreign sensation. The slight stinging of the wind on her cheeks was something new, something she wanted to investigate.

  Yllis told Fenix of the war between Singer and Silent, of how the man who called himself the True Father was slowly draining the Earthsingers of their magic and how the Mantle kept him hemmed into his side of the mountain.

  “So this Mantle, it’s only above the mountains correct?” Fenix asked.

  “Yes, you can pass through the mountain if you know the way,” Mooriah said. “However, several million kilometers of tunnels and thousands of angry Cavefolk make that a nearly impossible proposition.”

  “Could they not be bribed to help?”

  She laughed. “Doubtful. And even if you found someone brave or foolish or desperate enough, they would be discovered by others. Superstitions are intense among the Folk, and Outsiders are not welcome. As you’ve experienced.”

  “Hmm. So why do you live there?” Fenix asked. “Are you not a Singer?”

  Mooriah fell silent, an old ache taking hold of her throat.

  “Are you familiar with Nethersong?” Yllis replied.

  Fenix stumbled and caught himself on a boulder. She wanted to laugh, but it really wasn’t funny. He looked at her apprehensively for the first time. She swallowed her disappointment.

  “My daughter was born a Nethersinger and would have been killed, or killed many people, had she not been properly trained. However, there was no one to train her except the blood mages. I had little choice but to allow her to grow up there.”

  She had always understood this reality, but it didn’t make the sting of his rejection burn any less. She stared defiantly at Fenix, who now looked apologetic.

  “Those with death magic are quite rare where I come from as well,” he said. “Though as far as I know, in all the places settled by the refugees, the power has not manifested. I wonder why here?” His gaze was now alight with curiosity. “Are you proficient?”

  “Yes.”

  A grin took over his face. “You are a rare creature indeed. Kind and powerful.”

  She felt flushed and looked away.

  “We’re close now,” Yllis announced. “Watch your step.” They had crested a high ridge and were about to descend a steep incline. The cornerstone was well hidden in this section of the range. She questioned whether she would be able to find it again without her father’s help.

  “Perhaps we should create some sort of map,” she mused, stepping carefully down the path.

  “The whole point is for it to remain hidden, dear.”

  “Yes, but there may be cases in which someone will need to find it in the future. You are reinforcing it now. Such a thing might once again be necessary. We should be ready for all eventualities.”

  Yllis shook his head. “A paper map is too dangerous. Too easy to copy and distribute. And if it fell into the wrong hands…”

  “No, not paper. I was thinking of something more substantial. But you’re right, the cornerstone itself needs strong protections. The True Father knows it’s here, does he not?”

  “He does, though for now it’s safe on this side of the Mantle, where he can’t access it.”

  A caldera could be created holding the memory of the route to the cornerstone. It would serve as a map for those who would one day need to find this place. Her mind raced, considering what would be needed to create both the map and some kind of protection spell.

  She was so focused on her thoughts that she barely noticed they had arrived until she nearly ran into a stone pillar. She backed up to find a ring of such pillars, towering high in the air—each one must be as tall as five levels of steps back in the cave city. They were spaced about ten paces apart. In the center of the ring of stone was a caldera, an enormous one in the shape of an obelisk. It was blood red in color and rose even higher than the columns surrounding it.

  “It’s magnificent,” she whispered, her head tilted up.

  “How is it made?” Fenix asked, staring in awe.

  “Blood magic and Earthsong. I built this here so that the Mantle could stretch the entire length of the mountain range. It is my life’s work.” Yllis placed his hand on one of the outer pillars. “I know of no other spell like it.”

  “I have not heard of its like.” Fenix’s voice was hushed.

  Blood magic and Earthsong. Her father had combined the magic in some way. The sheer size of the obelisk was beyond impressive—how much blood had it taken to create? She shivered, but not from the cold. A spell of this magnitude, one that could create a barrier so strong, it must have taken quite a lot of power. If Earthsong had not been present, she would have estimated this caldera would have required the blood of thousands, maybe more.

  She tore her gaze away from the remarkable stone to view her father’s face. The Mantle had stood since before she was born and she was afraid to ask how many people had sacrificed their blood to create this. Plus, the most powerful calderas required death to activate. Did she even want to know?

  Yllis caught her eye, noticing her fearful expression. His face softened. “We were at war. There was quite enough blood to use without my having to shed a drop from anyone. The erection of the Mantle changed the war. Now the True Father can only terrorize those on his side of it.”

  Fenix had his eyes closed, both palms on the nearest stone pillar. “This is a clever spell. It fuels itself with Earthsong from all around, reaching deep into the earth and from the surrounding
region.”

  Yllis nodded approvingly.

  “So what will Nethersong do?” Mooriah asked.

  “Nethersong, Earthsong, and blood magic are needed for a defensive spell. Something to protect the cornerstone and reinforce it. Though creating this was a singular achievement, it is not infallible. And I have no illusions that it cannot be destroyed. I will tell you my theory on combining the magics, and then we will find a way to protect this place. The Mantle has stood for twenty-three years. I don’t know how much longer it will be needed, but it must not fall.”

  “I understand, Father. I will do all I can.”

  He smiled at her and her heart broke a little. He looked so tired, so worn. She had no idea of the burdens he’d taken on. When he’d built the Mantle all those years ago, he’d inadvertently become the only Singer left to the west of the mountains. He felt responsible for the actions of the True Father for reasons she never quite understood. But if this was the only way she could spend time with him, get to know him, she would do it. And protect his world in the process.

  She just hoped it would not also serve to disconnect her from her own. Pulled in two different directions—family versus community, the man who’d abandoned her versus the people who never quite accepted her. She settled down to work wishing that her life could be easier. Wishing for something that could never be.

  ~ 7 ~

  Fortitude Seals: A series of wards against true death by various means.

  Absolute precision is needed, else failure is assured. The spell may be enhanced by the consumption of water blossoms or blister seeds—but only by those well acquainted with their side effects.

  —WISDOM OF THE FOLK

  Ember paced the floor of his hideaway. The dinner hour had long ended and Mooriah had still not arrived. He had so much to tell her and beyond that, he just wanted to see her again.

  Something about how she’d looked outside the walls of the Mother had made his heart stutter. Her hair blowing in the raw wind, her skin glowing in the light of the overhead sun, it made him wonder if she would ever return to the Folk at all, when she could take her place Outside where she had been born.

  The prisoner had also given him pause. Ember had not thought the man’s life should be forfeit for the mistake he had made. Yet on that ledge he had gazed upon Mooriah in a proprietary way. He was also a powerful sorcerer like her father. Though his skin and eyes were strange, perhaps they were more alike than they were different. Perhaps she would not come back at all.

  Ember shivered and knelt to stoke the fire in the pit. His thoughts had grown maudlin and worse: fearful. But he had so much pent up energy within, he didn’t know what to do with it.

  He didn’t hear any soft footsteps but all the same he became aware of her presence just as she slipped through the entrance. She looked tired.

  He rose, worried. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just wanted to make sure no one saw me.”

  He winced, although he knew what she did was appropriate. “I made food, I wasn’t sure if you would have eaten.”

  Her stomach growled then, and she smiled ruefully. “Thank you, I haven’t.”

  He opened the pot of stew warming over the fire pit and she moaned at the aroma wafting from it. Turning away from her to hide his suddenly flushed face, he scooped some of the steaming vegetables into a bowl and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed; hers were cold. She still wore the voluminous, fur-lined cloak her father had given her, but shrugged it off seating herself on the cushion before the fire.

  “This should warm you,” he said, grateful as she dug into the meal.

  He could not tear his eyes away from her as she wolfed down her food. When her bowl was empty, he gave her some more.

  “Sorry to eat like such a beast,” she said, grimacing. “The work my father has me doing, it triggers my appetite.”

  “The mage work?”

  She nodded. “For some reason working a blood spell affects me more than it does Oval or Murmur or even Glister. I think it’s because of my…” she waved a hand around, “…differences.”

  It seemed she was uncomfortable talking about her sorcery. Which made sense. The Folk hated sorcerers of any kind. Most here had probably forgotten that she held strange natural magic, since she was so adept with the blood.

  “Anyway,” she said, putting her bowl down at last. “I’ve been thinking about where we should begin.”

  “Before we start, I should tell you that something has happened.”

  She looked at him warily, her brow lowered. Ember took a deep breath. “Crimson has made it official. The victor in the match at the Frost Festival will be the heir to the chieftaincy.”

  Her frown deepened. “That’s ridiculous. How can he base such a decision on the outcome of a game? What about leadership? Honor? Good sense?”

  He smiled, pleased by her disgust. “For him, it is only the strongest who matters. Brute force is weighed far more heavily on his scales than any other quality. Only one who embodies the quality of victory may lead Night Snow.”

  “What a foolish man.” She looked up suddenly, chagrined. “I’m sorry. He’s your father and I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, it’s fine. In this, we agree. He and I don’t see eye to eye on many things.” The apprehension which had filled his heart when Crimson had first shared the news came back full force. Ember was capable in the ring. He was more than a match for Rumble—if the fighting was fair.

  “Well, the only good news is that Crimson’s choice won’t be based on you completing a ritual or ceremony.” Her hopeful expression slayed him.

  “The bout will be to the short death.”

  Her warm skin grew ashen, and her jaw dropped.

  “We are to use wards to protect against a killing strike. But to win, we must land a death blow. Rumble is already warded against death by knife blade and strangulation. I must do so as well to survive.”

  His stomach had turned into a bottomless pit. Warding against danger, curses, and sorcery was part of Cavefolk life. Generations ago, fights to the short death were more common as a way to raise the stakes, entertain the audience, and truly practice for real battle. However, such practices had fallen out of favor.

  “The festival is in one week’s time,” Mooriah said. “You will have to learn the Fortitude Seals by then?” Her voice evoked her disbelief that such a thing was possible. “This type of spell is difficult and layered. That is one of the reasons why brawlers do not do it any longer. One mistake and the spell will not work.”

  “I know.” His body felt like it was made of lead. “My father has said that a chief should be able to do it. He is right.”

  She firmed her lips and nodded. “All right. That is our goal then. I will do my best to help you.”

  “I know you will.”

  She studied him for a long moment before pivoting to face him directly. He did the same, so they sat cross-legged, knees nearly touching.

  “Give me your hands,” she said.

  His throat tightened as he considered her long, elegant fingers extending toward him. He rested his palms atop hers lightly, shivering at the contact.

  She closed her eyes, giving him the opportunity to study her. Lit by firelight, her skin was smooth and unmarred. Her full lips formed perfect bows, and her lashes grazed her cheeks. He tried to clamp down his body’s response to her closeness, to the feel of her skin but he could not. Then she stroked his palms gently, and it was as if the rod holding up his spine had been removed. He nearly collapsed like an empty balloon.

  She smiled. “That’s it. Release the tension you carry, Ember. You need to relax. Now, can you tell me what it’s like when you try to pierce your skin?”

  A shiver went through him and the tension returned, but he focused on the softness of her palms. All his awareness was on the place where they touched. It was innocent, but sensual. Her scent came to him, incense mixed with lavender today—fragrant and lovely, just as she was.


  She’d asked him a question, what was it? Oh yes, his bane. He swallowed before answering. “I’m just paralyzed. It’s not the pain, that is negligible. But to cut into myself… The blade against my skin…” He shivered. “I cannot make my hands move. My mind is telling my body to act, but it will not.”

  He clamped his lips shut, embarrassed that he’d revealed so much.

  “It’s all right. It sounds like you cannot control it. Some people have these things.”

  “Weakness.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “Not weakness. Your strength is within. You’ve bested every challenger in the circle. You show compassion and wisdom and good leadership. You are not weak, Ember.”

  Her glare was fierce. She believed every word. “Repeat it.”

  He lifted his brows. She stared at him until he complied. “I am not weak.”

  “Again. Louder.”

  He smiled. “I am not weak.”

  “Good.” She squeezed his hands then released him. “I’d like to see you try to just prick yourself with this pin.”

  She held out a bone shard in her hand, the thinnest, tiniest one he’d ever seen. He took it from her, the thing was almost too small and delicate to hold in his thick fingers. He might just snap it in two.

  “Try to pierce the meaty part of your palm,” she said, her voice low and comforting.

  He placed the edge of the pin against his skin until it indented the pale flesh of his palm. All he had to do was apply the slightest amount of pressure. She was asking for just a single drop of blood.

  He held the pin there, willing himself to do it. But he couldn’t.

  He exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “What happens when you try?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure. My muscles lock up. They refuse to obey me. I feel like I’m not in control of my body any longer. It’s… impossible.” The weight of reality set upon him, and he wanted to give up. He would never be chief, and Night Snow would be embroiled in constant war.